Outlast the Night

Upshor without a Swan

Miles had just had it. He was running right out of the place with Star.

Fuck the article. 

Fuck Waylon.

Just him and Star far, far, away from this shit hole.

He had made it out of the psychotic hospital of hell. A Mad Doctor playing Mad Surgeon. An even more twisted Frankenstein. He will never forget the sound of the asshole's body crushing in half from the elevator. But does not feel anything over his death. He might have to take only stairs for the rest of his life.

As Miles pumps his arms and legs as fast as they can, he stumbles into the night of heavy rain. Thunder and lightening beat against the concrete courtyard. Inky black darkness covers Miles as the blanket of rain creates shivers down his body. His hands burn from the torture that the doctor preformed on him. His right pointer finger and two of fingers on his left hand were bursting blood and veins. The bones poking like white twigs. The urge to vomit has long sense passed. He left that gift back with the crazed fucker.  

And those Twins! The way they talked about eating his liver and tongue. And something about a Mother? Or Father? 

And Walker! Another fucker ruining his life and chasing him through a fucking sewer! A SEWER! He couldn't catch a fucking break even if he laid out a buffet of bs to the whole universe. 

The red river running down his hand and onto the pavement below his feet. He looked down at his hands. The pain was indescribable but his mind began to ask what would Star think.

A laugh ripples through his chest. He had his fingers cut off and he is worried about what a girl he hardly knows will think about it. The laugh scared him.

Is this it? Am I about to lose it too? To become one of them?

"Little pig."

Walker. The giant f*ck. He stomped towards the small male huffing and puffing. His arms pumping with his fist opening and closing ready to grab him. The face of ripped flesh exposing yellow teeth and eyes so white the glowed in the night vision camcorder. 

Not by the hair of my ass hole.

Miles ran through the courtyard that Father Martin wanted to meet him at, passed the fountain and to a shed. He must of lost the big idiot because he couldn't hear the chains rattling against his body. Miles searched up and down the shed. Normal gardening tools of shovels and wheelbarrow. And batteries. And a key. He almost hoped Star would be hidden in here. Maybe the good Father could use what's left of his sanity to get them both out of here. 

F*ck Waylon, the poor bastard can rot here with the rest of the bodies in here. 

Miles clutched the batteries in his hands switching them out from his old set. The rain water dripped down his skin as the puddle of red grew larger against his shoes and pants.  As he clicked the batteries in he also touched the bandages in his pockets. They still held the present whiteness from when Star first gave them to him. He set his camcorder down on the shelf and slowly pulled the medical fabric out of his dirty and crusty jacket. The smell of rot, either of the sewer or blood, he didn't care anymore. The blood from his hands quickly staining his last pure connection to Star.
He slowly unrolled the fabric careful of the burning heat of the rest of his hands.

His mind is thrown back to Star. Looking and touching his hands the same way she looked at him the first time they met. God that had to be what hours, days that have passed.

Careful eyes with Cupid bow lips speaking in soft words. Her hands touching his head patting his head like a mother to a child. Barely a conversation between them and he craves her touch again. How can you miss someone who you barely even know and yet love them so much? And will they look at you again with literal blood on your hands?

Could she be strong enough to touch him? Would be he strong enough? Will she ever touch him again? She's a doctor so she might know of a way of put him back together. Maybe new fingers and then, once that and selling his story of this hell. Every news and series is going to want to buy his footage until the check has miles of zeros. The first number counts, of course, but enough to get away from this hell with Star in his arms, he'll be home free. 
His thoughts bounced around in his skull as his remaining fingers crossed over each other as he wrapped around his wounds.

As he used his teeth to cut the fabric, a chill filled the air. Not the cold air, not the rain soaked clothes sticking to his skin, or the fear that has latched to his body, a new type of chill.

Miles looked down on the floor as a shadow crawled up the wall. The only light casting down on him and the random dust covered junk. The shadow moved up and towards him. He took several steps back before the green mist had a chance to touch him. As soon as he stepped away it went away. Back down to the ground where not as much as a hum of the electric fence could be heard.

What the actual fuck was that?!

Miles needed to leave, like hours ago!

Screw this place! He was getting Star and leaving ASAP!

He grabbed his camcorder and key and bolted out the door.

Screw it if he was being hunted down by psychopaths!

Screw the article! 

Screw everyone and everything that goes a part of this, Miles was hunting down Star and fucking burning this place to the ground. With everyone else still inside.